


Intruder

by RayearthHikaru



Series: Coeurs Rebelles [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Unity, Attraction, F/M, First Meetings, French Kissing, Kissing, Reader-Insert, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RayearthHikaru/pseuds/RayearthHikaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You said it was your grandmother's. A gift, perhaps? Please, accept my most sincere apologies... and consider this as a way to show you my dismay.”</i> </p><p><i>Before you could even ask what is he referring to, cold leather is around your chin and lifts it slightly, glove enveloping your jaw as a hot breath brushes against your parted lips.</i> </p><p>An intrusion in the middle of the night might become a pleasant meeting between you and the master Assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intruder

**Author's Note:**

> *clears throat* well yeah, first of all, I need to say I was inspired by **OrangeSubmarine** and her amazing stories about AC Unity. Second, as you all know the game is not even out yet, so Arno's personality may be completely different from the one described here. 
> 
> Anyway, I might or might not write a sequel for this random thing (though I actually have some ideas that would also include sexual content pfff), depends on my inspiration and all. Still, I would be curious to see what you think about it and would eventually suggest ^_^
> 
> Oh, the Graphic Depictions Of Violence tag was put because I slightly mentioned the severed heads from the trailers, so you know, just to be safe. 
> 
> **Translations:**
> 
> _La Révolution_ = The Revolution  
>  _Arrêter!_ = Stop!  
>  _Assassin_ = Assassin (pff yeah, kinda obvious, I just wanted to point out the fact that this word is pronounced in French once or twice)  
>  _Merde_ = Shit  
>  _Va te faire foutre_ = Go f**k yourself  
>  _Merci beaucoup_ = Thank you very much  
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear  
>  _Oui_ = Yes  
>  _Je suis désolé_ = I am sorry  
>  _Mademoiselle_ = Miss  
>  _Mon Dieu_ = My God  
>  _Monsieur_ = Sir/Mister  
>  _À bientôt_ = Goodbye/See you soon  
>  _Pardonnez-moi_ = Forgive me  
>  _Grand-mère_ = Grandma  
>  _Sincèrement_ = Sincerely

_La Révolution_ is in the air.

Powerful gunshots resound in the distance, as well as the clash of swords and indistinct shouts.

You describe every single detail of the recurring events in your journal; every kind of smell, every sound, the fog and dust through the streets and in the atmosphere, the cries, the tears, the fears, the countless battles to finally be free.

And the heads being severed and impaled from time to time.

The king is dead by now, yet more blood is shed and terror widespread.

You can only watch, wait and hope for a better future, a thriving Paris and the richer times the people is trying to get with force and violence. You can just pray for a world without war, slavery, dictatorship and deception.

Easier said than done.

Your pen runs over the white paper almost automatically, hand moving on its own accord. A river of thoughts flowing like the _Seine_ from your head to the black ink that's marking the empty pages, a strand of hair falls in front of your eyes but you keep writing and writing, releasing your doubts, worries, letting off some steam before crawling to bed and sleep late in the morning to forget.

But then another, much closer gunshot is heard from outside.

The frantic movement of your wrist ceases at the sound, wide eyes shifting to the open window whilst your heart explodes in terror and beats painfully against your ribcage.  
You push the chair backward - which squeaks along the old floor planks – and stand with a hand nervously pressed on your chest as the other still holds the feather pen with which you were writing. Carefully, you approach the sill to lean out on the road, cold night air blowing on your cheeks and making your whole body shiver for the sudden change of temperature.

Another shot is heard and more swords seem to collide somewhere in the alleyway. You inhale as more confusing sounds spread nearby; shattering glasses, rapid footsteps and alarmed voices breaking the enjoyable silence of your neighborhood.

“ _Arrêter_!” 

“ _Assassin_!”

You step back reflexively, almost predicting the uncomfortable occurrence that is just about to come.

A sudden shadow jumps through the window and lands in front of you with a loud thump, bumping your ceramic jar accidentally and sending it into a thousand pieces on the wooden floor.  
Startled, you back away emitting a silent cry, to then miserably lose your balance without being able to find any support in the process (and the pen just slipping away from your fingers).

But, before you could even graze the hard surface with your long dress, a firm arm is wrapped around your back preventing you from falling, soft fabrics on your palms as you cling to them to stay as steady as possible.

And you feel a breath, hot and labored, right on the cool skin of your face.

A hoodied figure is slightly bent over you, a man you can barely see in the shade, only one candle illuminating your bedroom from the small table.

Scared, confused, amazed... you have no idea of how you are supposed to feel right now. A stranger just broke into your home, being terrified for your own life would be a perfectly natural reaction. However, when you dare to fully lift your eyes from what it looks like a rock-hard chest, you meet a pair of glistening ireses staring down at you with intensity as the stranger upon you catches his breath.

Full lips, rough stubble, a blue hood covering his hair and part of his visage, a red scarf around his neck, an unusual (but pretty cool) attire overall.

And God, his hold is not even threatening, you would rather definite it... protective, if possible. Didn't he just 'save' you from a ridiculous fall on the floor, after all?

Nah. He just broke into your house in the middle of the night, for God's sake!

“Who-”

A gloved finger is placed on his lips, corners raised in a sneering smirk, before you could finally speak after what seemed like an eternity. Slowly straightening his and your posture simultaneously, the man detaches from your smaller form and retreats, raising a menacing gun that you surely haven't noticed before, as well as the dangling sharp sword on his left side.

More voices echo in the street. The mysterious intruder settles himself next to the window, silently watching his pursuers from that hidden spot in the shadows.

You embrace yourself, confused, gazing his strong jaw outlined by the night lights. Whoever this man is, surely you don't have the faintest idea of what he might do with you afterwards... better not let your guard down only because of his pretty face.

Then, when every movement in the street seems to cease and the voices become just a distant hum, the hoodied stranger puts the pistol back in its holster and sets his eyes on you once more, your heart galloping like a runaway horse.

You step back unconsciously when he's about to approach, unsure of his intentions and used to not trust anybody else except yourself. Raising both hands in the air he stops in his tracks, right when his left boot comes in contact with the ceramics fragments on the floor, a loud 'crack' coming from under his feet.

And realization hits you when you both stare at the broken, no, _destroyed_ precious item.

Damn, your poor jar.

“Oh _merde_. _Va te faire foutre_ ," you curse.

Guilt and turmoil appear on his partially hidden face. He steps back, careful not to make the visible mess even worse. “ _Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle_ ,” he speaks. “I may reimburse you for that.”

Sighing you shake your head. “That jar belonged to my grandmather. It surely can't be replaced, nor can it fix itself with money. What exactly are you doing in my house, anyway?”

The man takes another quick glance outside, then he climbs over the fragments with a wide step and eventually stands a few inches away from you. This time you don't back away.

“Ah, yes. _Merci beaucoup_ , your help was very providential.”

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms. “My help? I did nothing.”

“You actually have done more than you believe, _ma chère_.”

A not wanted heat warms up your cheeks, the smile that is pulling the corners of his mouth is absolutely breathtaking and you mentally slap yourself for being so vulnerable in front of a man you've never met before.

You clear your throat. “ _Oui, oui_. If you say so.”

A gloved hand appears in front of you as he extends it, the other one placed behind his back. “Arno Victor Dorian, _Mademoiselle_. At your service.”

Despite your jaw dropping (hopefully it's dark enough for him to see it) you manage to keep control of your reactions and respond with your own name taking his hand almost hesitantly.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful damsel,” he murmurs, warm and soft lips on the back of your hand.

 _Mon Dieu_.

“A-and who are you supposed to be, _Monsieur_ Arno?” You inquire, cheeks on fire and knees extremely weak.

The intruder's grip loosens. “I am just a man who stands and fights for the people. For liberty. Because _nothing is true, everything is permitted_.”

You blink in confusion. “What does that mean?”

Arno responds with a light chuckle, eyes moving on the messed up floor again. “I apologize for the inconvenience. Are you sure you do not want me to repay you in any way?”

Putting aside the stinging irritation you momentarily felt for your ignored question, you silently walk to the countless fragments, glittering pottery pieces scattered on the wooden planks.

You emit a deep sigh of resignation. “It's okay, it can't be repaired anyway.”

“You said it was your grandmother's. A gift, perhaps? Please, accept my most sincere apologies... and consider _this_ as a way to show you my dismay.”

Before you could even ask what is he referring to, cold leather is around your chin and lifts it slightly, glove enveloping your jaw as a hot breath brushes against your parted lips.

What happens next goes beyond your endurance, a part of you wanting to push him away the moment his mouth presses against yours in a deep kiss. But, when his tongue ably penetrates into your cavern without permission, all you can do is hold on to his elbows and struggle to mantein your legs firm. The way this man is touching you, one hand sliding to your right hip with an electric stroke, has this inexplicable power to cloud your senses, as if he knew exactly where to put his fingers, the correct spots to drive you crazy with a simple graze, and how to masterfully relish you to make your body melt in a puddle of shame.

Arno only parts from your lips when he's sure he has explored every little corner of your mouth, as well as your own tongue where you can taste his bitter-sweet flavor, muscle aching from the little effort you have made to follow his movements, way too fast and too skilled for a woman who hasn't been kissed for too many years.

He sensually licks his lower lip and grins like the perfect seducer he apparently is, disappointment shrinking your features when his hands free your form from their hot grip.

“ _À bientôt, ma chère_.”

Dazed, you watch him in astonishment without being able to formulate any meaningful sentence. The man before you steps back without wiping that winning smile from his lips, then runs away like a bolt of lightning, leaping out of the window in a fraction of second.

It takes you one minute, if not more, to focus and put yourself together to realize what just happened. The jar's fragments crack under your frantic steps when you anxiously reach the sill again, the outside world still foggy and smelling of burnt wood and blood.

A suicidal gesture, or an acrobatic jump gone wrong. Even if no sound of broken bones came after the sudden leap, your body shakes when you dare to look down, a wave of pure relief pervading you when you make sure that his figure is not tragically smashed to the ground like you feared.

A ghost, a wildcat, an _Assassin_... someone who fights for the people, he claimed. But at the very moment, you just cannnot stop thinking about the amazing kisser he has proved to be and to wonder where he might be gone after a similar jump, literally disappeared into the dusty night.

And, at the same time, you can't help but feel terribly guilty for your grandmother's jar, broken and abandoned, right because of said kisser. Someone you should definitely hate and probably be afraid of for all you know, but the more you try to sweep his memory away, a remembrance probably destined to remain so, the less you succeed.

Crazy that a total stranger has managed to imprint himself in your mind with just a kiss and a few words in a matter of moments. Might be the allure of mystery, the attraction to the unknown... whatever it is should not be considered important, not as much as the fact that you now have to clean the floor from the remnants of what once was a heirloom and also the only valuable thing in your possession.

“ _Pardonnez-moi, grand-mère_.”  
  


\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite the Revolution perpetually in progress, the following morning you are greeted by an unexpected surprise waiting for you right under the window. You have to blink a few times to be sure you're not having an allucination, convinced of being still half asleep if not completely in the midst of a beautiful dream.  
  
The object is there, wrapped in a red velvet bow and with a note tucked inside of it.

You abandon the comfort of your bed to meet the cold, creaky floor with bare feet, staggering a bit with fatigue at every small step, curious eyes locked on that beribboned item until you finally reach it and lean down to inspect the thing.

The bow is soft to the touch and it looks so well made that undoing it would surely be unfortunate. But, what actually captivates your attention, is the new, colorful jar placed where its predecessor previously was, its floreal design is elegant and refined, all embroidered with gold stripes (is that real god?!) and mounted gems.

Speechless and still not sure of being fully awake, you grab the note from the bow and read the black text written on it, a contented smile forming on your lips after every inked word.

_This surely will not give you back your grandmother's jar, but I hope you will accept it as a token of apology._

Sincèrement,

 _ **A**_.

You can't suppress the laugh of joy which shakes your body right after, wondering how and where in the earth did he get such a luxurious piece. But then, following the decorative stripes with the tip of your fingers, you decide that you don't really care to know, accepting Arno Dorian's gift without further questioning.


End file.
